


To Err is Human (To Forgive, Divine)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Discipine, Disrespect, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shame, Spanking, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6172372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan's mouth leads him into trouble, and, once again, he finds himself in need of forgiveness. Written per reader request. A companion piece to "If Thought Corrupts Language (Language Can Also Corrupt Thought)" though both stories are designed to be enjoyed independently or in conjunction with one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Err is Human (To Forgive, Divine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveforhockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveforhockey/gifts).



“To err is human; to forgive, divine.”—Alexander Pope

To Err is Human (To Forgive, Divine) 

Dylan’s overheated face was burrowed in the cool linen of the hotel’s pillowcase, but he didn’t need to see in order to hear the ajar door to the room he shared with AA swing open or to hear Pavel state in the sort of solemn tone that wouldn’t have been amiss at a funeral, “AA says you tell him he not fit to be part of this team.” 

“AA is a filthy tattle-tale who deserves to be pushed off the Empire State building or somewhere else even higher if I can manage it.” Dylan scowled into his pillow, resenting AA for taking his spot on the team and poisoning the veterans against him.

“You don’t deny it.” Pavel drew in a sharp breath. 

“Why should I?” Dylan snorted. “You’ll just believe him, not me.” 

“Are you saying you not tell him that?” Pavel’s voice was a frown. 

“No.” Dylan’s hands balled into fists around his blankets. “Who gives a shit if I said that to him? He’s just a rookie.” 

“So are you.” Pavel sank the mattress as he sat on it and gave Dylan’s shoulders a reproving shake. “You want me tell you you shouldn’t be on team just because you rookie, huh?” 

“Leave me alone.” Burying his flushed face deeper into his pillow, Dylan longed for sleep or suffocation. 

Either would bring numb oblivion to the mounting shame of the memory of the hateful words he had hurled at his fellow rookie, but both were impossible with Pavel tugging at his elbow and ordering in a manner crisp as autumn apples, “Head up. You too old for peek-a-boo, and hiding your face in pillow not hide you.” 

“Your English not help me understand you,” muttered Dylan, wondering what demon had possessed his soul and compelled him to mock the broken English of one of hockey’s most respected players and if a bolt of lightning would suddenly shoot down from heaven to burn him to cinders as divine vengeance for his insolence. 

“If you not understand my English, maybe you understand this.” Pavel delivered a swift, stinging swat to Dylan’s pajama-clad backside, and Dylan yelped at the unexpected assault on his hindquarters. With another firm slap to Dylan’s behind, Pavel added sternly, “Sit up and tell me why you say to AA he shouldn’t be on team.” 

Dylan, humiliated by what he had snapped at AA and even more mortified that he had received a pair of well-deserved spanks from somebody who had been one of his hockey heroes ever since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, but resolved to act as if he had no shame, retorted, “What’s the point in talking to you when you don’t speak English?” 

“If you not talk, then you listen, and if my English bad, I use my hands to help me speak.” The hands he mentioned as nimble as ever, Pavel slid Dylan’s pajam bottoms down to encircle his kneecaps and then landed a strong swat to the center of Dylan’s boxer-covered butt. Raining smacks down Dylan’s right ass cheek and then his left, Pavel scolded, “You speak to me with respect, and you obey me. You not bully AA. You not tell him he shouldn’t be on team. You not GM of this team. Not your job decide who be on this team. Just your job be good teammate no matter what. Got it, Dylan?” 

“Yes, Pav,” rasped Dylan, torn between praying that the spanking would be over soon to spare his rear and that it would last long enough to beat the guilt out of him like dust thrashed from a carpet. 

“Don’t know what got into you tonight.” Pavel was hammering away at Dylan’s tender sit-spots, where his thighs met his buttocks, a delicate border region that howled in agony as Pavel paid rough, exacting attention to it. “We get it out of you, though, so you can be a good teammate again.” 

“Will you even want me as a teammate after this?” Dylan bit his lip hard enough to flood his mouth with the iron taste of blood. 

“I always want you as teammate.” Pavel’s hand was unrelenting as it journeyed back up Dylan’s backside, re-igniting fires it had already lit. “Before season start, Hank, Kronner, and I ask for you to be on team, you know. We want you to be here and do well. That why we discipline you when you not be your best.” 

A particularly powerful swat wrenched a cry, muffled by the pillow, from Dylan, and once the first had been surrendered, the second and third soon followed, the cries slowly swelling into lung-rattling sob as Pavel’s palm pounded on his rump. 

“I’m sorry,” moaned Dylan, feeling as if that was all he ever could or would say again. “I shouldn’t have said those hateful things to you or AA.” 

“I forgive you.” Pavel patted Dylan’s heaving shoulder, and Dylan was surprised at how quickly Pavel’s touch could transform from punishing to soothing. “Apologize to AA, too.” 

“Yes, Pav.” Repentant and desperate to agree to anything to demonstrate his remorse, Dylan nodded so forcefully that dizziness swamped him. 

“That can wait until tomorrow.” Pavel pulled Dylan’s pajama bottoms back into place, drawing a faint whimper from Dylan as the fabric traveled across his sensitive flesh, and massaged the nape of Dylan’s neck. “Now you need sleep.”

Tired enough from his weeping that his eyelids felt heavy as cement but craving more affection from Pavel as physical reassurance that he was not only forgiven but loved, Dylan, flipping over onto his back although it made his bottom launch a heated protest at the pressure being placed upon its battered self, murmured somewhat sheepishly, “Would you tuck me in?” 

“Of course.” Ruffling Dylan’s hair, Pavel gently guided the blankets out from under Dylan’s body and then wrapped them snugly about Dylan, so he was engulfed in a warm cacoon from toe to chin. As he leaned forward to brush his lips across Dylan’s forehead, Pavel asked, “Want a bedtime story, too?” 

“Yes, please.” Dylan’s eyes shone with more excitement than tears. 

“How about I tell you story about when I a young player, wild and untamed?” Pavel suggested, gaze bright as Dylan’s. 

“You’re going to tell me about a time you got in trouble when you were young?” Dylan had to clarify because he found it difficult to picture Pavel being disciplined by anyone, even if it wasn’t impossible to imagine his mischievous streak getting him into trouble. The idea of a young Pavel was also as bizarre as an uncoordinated one or one who never shut up. In Dylan’s mind, Pavel had sprung into being as a gifted and wily veteran without enduring any of the awkwardness of youth. 

“Unless you not want hear it.” Pavel chuckled at the expression on Dylan’s face, and then went on, “It my second year in NHL, and I feeling lots pressure because media saying I no good in playoffs and need be traded—“ 

“That wasn’t very nice of them.” Affronted on behalf of the young Pavel, Dylan bristled. 

“They probably not know I could read English.” Pavel shrugged. 

“Even if they thought you couldn’t understand what they wrote, it was horrible for them to publish that crap.” Dylan’s jaw tightened. “Those journalists should’ve had their articles shoved up their asses.” 

“Their articles ended up shoved up my ass.” Pavel’s lips twitched in wry amusement. “They hurt my heart and fog my brain. Every night, it gets worse until finally my temper explode like a volcano on Hank, and I tell him he shouldn’t be on team and should be traded—“ 

“What?” spluttered Dylan, unable to believe that either Hank or Pavel—who were always together, teasing, joking, nudging, hugging, tussling, strategizing, competing, and encouraging—would ever wish to be separated from the other. Hank and Pavel just went together like peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese. 

“You heard me.” Pavel tapped Dylan’s nose. “I say horrible stuff to Hank but I not mean it. I just taking out my stress and fears on him, because I tell myself that if I hurt him that get rid of my pain, but that not true. When Hank ran from room we share crying about what I say, I feel guilty right away and want to apologize, but I too much of a coward to do that so I stay in room by myself until Steve Yzerman come in.” 

“Hank didn’t tell, did he?” Dylan’s eyes widened. 

“Am I telling story or are you?” Pavel arched an eyebrow before resuming his tale of his youthful misadventure. “Anyway, Steve came in to talk to me about what had happened because he meet crying Hank in hallway and find out what I said from Hank. He not happy and give me stern lecture along with spanking to remember for a lifetime.” 

“Double ouch.” Dylan winced. “Amazing you ever forgave Hank for snitching on you.” 

“He not do anything wrong.” Pavel shook his head. “I shouldn’t have done anything I not want my captain to hear about.” 

“Is that the moral of the story?” Dylan’s forehead knotted, worried this tale was nothing more than an elongated reprimand. 

“No.” Pavel squeezed Dylan’s shoulders. “Moral of the story is that when Hank got back to our room, I apologize to him and he forgive me, and it as if I never say anything bad to him, because that’s what good teammates do. They forget screw-ups, and see beyond the ad to the good even when we at our most terrible.”


End file.
